non-cheesy yoga = awesome

Or, How to Talk Intelligently About Yoga

Is yoga spiritual? Is yoga religion? Is yoga science? What is yoga? These questions matter to me because it affects how I relate to students. I teach yoga in a university gym largely because I have the autonomy to do what I want, as I’ve yet to find a like-minded studio in NYC (great teachers, yes, but they all seem to be pretty autonomous as well). At Columbia, I’m not pressured to teach a certain way. For example, I don’t chant because most Columbia students aren’t comfortable with it. In fact, it can take them a few weeks to exhale with a sigh at the end of class (but once they do!..). The spirit is in the breath. Because I find that the subtler aspects of yoga happen through the breath and focus rather than coaching (they certainly don’t happen on command), I don’t have a vocabulary for them. Wooey juicy-KrishnaLove-healing-chakra babble just does not describe my experience of the energetic experience of yoga. It’s not that I don’t believe. Genny Kapuler once explained that she doesn’t talk about the chakras much because there are entire libraries written about them. She doesn’t feel her knowledge, acquired in over thirty years as an Iyengar teacher, is adequate to teach them well. To boil down the fourth chakra to “My heart chakra was stuck so I really had trouble finding the right guy. But I took a workshop and could feel it open. I’m so excited about the possibilities!” is wanting, at best. I’m very hesitant to talk about energetic and emotional experiences in yoga not only because I don’t have the words, but because it’s important that we speak intelligently. Yoga practice is powerful and immediate. When energy and spirituality is discussed flippantly, it’s too easy to be thrown out as New Age nonsense. Horton conveys a “weirder experience” of yoga in her book Yoga PhD:

One day, during a deep hip opener (Pigeon pose, for those who know it), I had an intense, PTSD-like flashback of an emergency C-section that I’d undergone eight years previously. Holding the pose, laying forward with one leg bent under my torso, the other extended straight back behind me, eyes closed, breathing deeply, feeling inside, and suddenly, BOOM. I could see the operating room – smell it, even. It was intense, enveloping, vivid, real. But – and this is the crucial thing – it was not overwhelming. I was able to psychically revisit what had been a highly traumatic experience without panic or pain. On the contrary, I felt solidly anchored in that abiding, compassionate center that’s often called “witness consciousness”: that is, the part of the mind that is capable of staying calmly present in any storm.

(Yoga PhD, p. 9.)

This story is good because she communicates effectively. We all hold. And we all resist letting that go. What does that even mean, let go? It’s become a platitude. But when it means something, it’s a tricky thing. Here Horton “let go.” She wasn’t told to let go. She wasn’t looking to let go (at least not in that moment). But she did. I hold. In my chest and upper back, especially, and my lower right pelvis/hip. Sometimes I feel close to it—the memory, the energy, the feeling—whatever it is. But I’m afraid, frankly, to be overwhelmed by the pain of it. I remember saying long before yoga (my late teens, probably), that if something has been repressed to the unconscious, there’s probably a good reason for it. Let it be. That witness consciousness can take over in the experience is all very nice, but not everyone’s pain is as clinical as a C-section and this experience far more cleansed and tidy than the reality for many. In fact, according to neuroscientists like van der Kolk, such removed experience “psychically revisited” may not even help, as the healing is in processing the held, unfelt pain, rather than watching from a dissociated state. Unfortunately, facing and feeling this isn’t always as proper and removed as Horton suggests. This doesn’t mean we don’t have the strength to do it—simply that it might not be so sterile and detached as to keep a school marm comfortable.

A student wrote on an evaluation this semester “Non-cheesy Yoga = Awesome.” It’s true. Personally, I find it hard to focus, much less be open, if someone is telling me to let my shoulder blades kiss, or to enjoy a juicy hip opener. I also find it hard when someone is barking at me to open my chest. “Hey! Heartache! Be gentle!” I silently cry. This is where a personal practice can create a space you can explore in, taking time in poses when you feel something going on there, something that can be difficult in a class. It is hard, as a teacher, to make a space for this experience, especially in a gym-type environment. But the possibility is there. Horton:

When I first started practicing yoga, the idea that its psychological benefits could be just as, if not more beneficial than its physical ones wouldn’t have made any sense to me. It’s funny looking back. Because today, I take it for granted that one of the things I cherish most about my practice is that it weaves an organic process of psychologically healing and growth into my everyday life.

(Yoga PhD, p. 61.)

Because this is true for many practitioners, it’s time to work on my vocabulary for, and comfort with, talking about this aspect of yoga.

Yeah, that’s what I liked about your classes: just enough direction and an occasional Freddie mercury story. That, plus a consistent blend of genders and ages. The balance was what I liked, though I like least the standing balance asanas…

Great article. I think non-cheesy yoga is really important, not only so yoga teachers don’t come off sounding like flakes (we have all heard some suspicious claims made during classes) but also so that we give students space to have their own experience in yoga. I tell students I don’t speak about the subtle side much because I believe they will come to it and maybe they will want to speak then but it’s not for me as a teacher to tell them what their journey will be. That makes it into a religion and I love yoga because it is not but rather an infinite number of paths and journeys.

I think you will find the quality issue in yoga of all genres will follow the standard distribution model – you know – the Bell Curve. There will be a small number of incredibly poor teachers (this fact is often used as a bat to bang the drum for tighter regulation and/or better training) by an over-represented fecundity of extremely mediocre “career” teachers that are in turn, occasionally derided by a few truly remarkable ones – that’s the community I recognize anyway. I would guess you are in that last bracket. Dunning-Kruger’s work on this aspect is really good. With best wishes.

Yes, yes, regarding the bell curve, I agree. I was just thinking something like this myself. And yes, the regulation issue is really all about money, isn’t it. But that’s a different conversation.

My aim isn’t to deride anyone though. While I do poke a bit of fun (the chakra/right man comment was entirely fabricated. But we’ve all heard it), it’s not meant to be snarky so much as illustrative. Often teachers like this can be really strong asana teachers, which is a good thing.

I wouldn’t call myself a remarkable teacher. I’m a solid teacher, and I teach from experience, which is always a plus. I know my weaknesses. I also attract a particular type of student, and that’s the thing about teachers, and probably yoga teachers especially. Some people want love bubble yoga with a candy-soft yoga-teacher voice and discourse. Some people want lots of hands on, others lots of verbal instruction. When people are trying out yoga, the teacher they get is at least as important as the style. But I digress.

Will check out Dunning-Kruger, and rough yoga as well. Thanks for commenting, and best wishes. ~Anastasia